Over the years, my dad buys me random books from time to time. More often than not, art deco books. Not sure why he’s latched onto that particular interest of mine, but no complaints here. The largest read yet sits on a bench out in the living room beckoning with its beguiling ways in each pass by. And now with Christmas, I’m near drowning in nouveau words to digest. All kinds- The Good, the Bad, and Me, for one. Eli Wallach’s memoir. Several pages in already. Yes, there are worse things!
Like crispy Christmas trees. It’s like it dried out overnight. Literally, overnight. Supple, plucky needles making for lush branches yesterday, rendered brittle bits of bough destined for a dumpster, today. Still manages to smell divine though. Christmas has passed by far too quickly this year, I’m sad to see it go, and yet thrilled to feel such affection for all its facets once again!